(חול (מאת אימיגרנט

"וכי תבואו אל הארץ ונטעתם כל עץ מאכל , וערלתם ערלתו ..." (ויקרא יט,כג).

מהי אבן היסוד של אמונה? דבקות? צניעות? גמילות חסדים?

לא ולא. אבן היסוד היא ספק. לא מלשון זה שאף פעם אינו מספיק, אלא זה מלשון לספק. הספק מספק לאדם את צורכיו, הגשמיים והרוחניים. על ידי חוסר השקט שבשאלה, אדם קם בבוקר רעב. רעב לאהבה, רעב לשלמות מקצועית, רעב לחביתה.

הרעב, או תשוקה, היא חרב פיפיות. היא גורמת לאדם לצאת מביתו אל הרחוב, לשדרה פתוחה תחת שמש לוהטת, להידחק בין מאות כמותו, ולהרגיש כאילו הוא דמות ראשית במחזה. היא גורמת לו להקים משפחה, לשפוט על פי מוסר וצדק של אבותיו.

אך אותו רעב גורם לאדם להיאחז בחומר, להישאר בגשמיו.

זהוא לא צרוף מקרים שהמושג ההפוך מקודש הוא חול. כשם שחול נחפר בשיער, נדחק בין אצבעות הרגליים אחרי ביקור בים, כך התשוקה, הספק נדבק, ואפילו קצה קמצוץ ממנו, משאיר אדם באי שקט וחוסר שלימות. 

Why I'm Not an Academic

 Tuesday, 8:55, the kettle is still asleep, (so is the cat lounging near a broken radiator)

Sitting on a foldable table from the charity shop.

The essay is called “Cultural Communications in Post-Modern, Post-Industrial, (Post Democratic?) Britain”.

I think about communication. I write three pages about the word communication.

A short story of a man who is conscious but cannot communicate with his surroundings. (Bibliography 19?3, 123)  Three pages without using the word “communication” once.

I reference scholars: Beck, Badieu, Becket, B.B. King.

The sun is visible (West). An academic sign for getting drunk.

I go the race-pub downstairs, I out all my money on a horse (Chomsky’s Revenge).

Downing the pint, a toothless lady is staring at me tweed patched jacket.

I write that in my essay. An example of post-colonial guilt.

My friend Chopin got a 1^st  in composition, although he failed performance as he’s been asleep for the last 150 years.

“In democracy your vote counts; in feudalism, your count votes” (201?, Bathroom wall)

I stand in line at the entrance to the pedagogic cage. Girls turn ugly as they come out (PC-Resistance). Napoleon is sour-faced as he did not reference his battle plans correctly (Harvard).

Two weeks later, I get a high mark, although I am accused of plagiarizing O’Hara.

The Food Critic

In the Zagat survey,
I got 3 stars.

Debbie103 called my prose, "whimsical",
It is odd as my intention was to be stern and heavy-handed.
My words are not locally sourced,
But grown in far lands, harvested, shocked frozen and
delivered to my door step along with a seedy tabloid, filled with puns to satisfy my simplistic taste.

My poetry does not marry well with lush, mature, dark, indigo wine, but with a youthful Beaujolais, drunk before it could achieve ripeness,
maybe by an overweight Alsatian patroness,
maybe by an English nomad,
gulping it down in the rain, with left-over cheesy-chips,
(is this what they call nouvelle-cuisine?).

My modern techniques are mentioned on occasion in the same breath as molecularism (that is funny as I never passed a science exam in high school).

I am not "tucked in" a picturesque town or inner courtyard. My decor is not "quaint but modern". My cuisine is not "clean" and I do not give discounts to groups.
I am not minimalistic, as they are in Japan.

I can only relate to the lines that grace4food wrote:

"Where I feel alone, within the midst of a bustling intersection. A space so immense, a sense of awe and purity but at the same time it feels like it's at the back of a motor-home, cooking on an old burner, using a rusty knife, waiting for the dusk to disappear"

Have you left room for desert?